


i'd fly up the river to the one i love

by henwens



Series: fare thee well [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demons, Historical Setting - Industrial Revolution, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 13:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henwens/pseuds/henwens
Summary: Crowley has become adept at saving Aziraphale over the years. That’s not to say that the opposite situation has never been the case.(After all, salvation for Crowley has always been a little different.)





	i'd fly up the river to the one i love

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever think about how Crowley loves humanity so much and his first thought is of their temptation into destruction and the ruination of children and how much he wants to protect them even to the point of forming close relationships with them as a nanny? 
> 
> Because I do, and this formed as a result. 
> 
> Because my previous fic felt a little unfinished, I want to revisit the world it set up as well. Therefore, I would suggest reading that first!

Aziraphale opens his bookshop in July. London is ablaze with heat, the smoke of the factories filling the air with a cloying tang that sticks in the back of throats.

“Didn’t you already have one of these?” Crowley peers curiously through one of the tinted window panes.

Aziraphale huffs out a breath, and Crowley would have mistaken it for frustration in anyone else. In Aziraphale, it is pure and joyous amusement. “Just finished a few details this week. Really, it all came down to pushing a few miracles through to get _everything_ just right, and if that took a couple more years than expected, well, it’s not as if I didn’t have the time.”

“Upstairs okay with you doing this?” 

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale practically glows. Crowley winces behind his glasses. He wouldn’t put it past the angel. “Phrased it all as collecting human knowledge to better understand the threats of the human mind, and how to alleviate them on the whole. Besides, a bookshop is a wonderful way to keep tabs on grand social movements.” 

Aziraphale leans forward, and Crowley’s heart beats a little faster in the cavern of his chest. “People talk,” he says conspiratorially. 

“Yes,” Crowley says, willing his breath to slow. He hadn’t really been expecting— he really was spending too much time in his own head these days. “I am aware.” 

Aziraphale gestures to a thin banner of paper that hangs over the precipice of the doorway. “I just picked out a color for the shop name, would you care to take a look?”

“Love to, angel,” he says, stepping back a little on the curb. Aziraphale looks hesitant for a moment— _was it something I said?_ Crowley thinks, and then, with a quick snap of his fingers, the banner falls. Behind it, in curling, golden script: _A.Z. Fell and Co._

Crowley looks up at the sign, Aziraphale standing beside him. 

“What’s the significance?” 

Aziraphale gives him just a cautious smile in return. Crowley wonders if he is imagining the sly tilt to Aziraphale’s lips. “I just liked the look, my dear.”

As always, Crowley mentally fills in the “friend” that Aziraphale always manages to leave off the endearment. 

“What do you think?”

Crowley thinks he doesn’t like to think about the gaps in his knowledge of Aziraphale. He stares at the sign… _A.Z. Fell and Co._ , and gives Aziraphale a thumbs up. The angel beams. 

It’s not long before Crowley is walking back to his quarters, in the tenement district. He has always liked being surrounded by industry, and it is not the well-to-do factory owners responsible for this progress at all, but rather the riff raff raising families in the streets and working double shifts in the factories. 

If Crowley were introspective, and he tries not to be, he thinks that there might be some masochism on his part, settling in the family districts. Some aching part of Crowley sometimes seeps into the night and recognizes the taste of goodness, the same electrical tinge to the air that Crowley loves to breathe in whenever Aziraphale is near. 

The more conscious mind of Crowley justifies the move as wanting to be nearer to the almost sulfuric smell of the factories. The ash gray clinging to the walls of the tenement buildings really reminds him of… well, calling it home sometimes feels wrong, so he’ll stick with Hell. 

Here, Crowley has neighbors. Everyone is surrounded at all times, and this, Crowley has justification for as well. It is so much easier to come up with his next demonic scheme when he knows exactly the frustrations that modernity is bringing to humanity. 

It is so easy to look at Mrs. Johanneson and her five children across the hall and sniff out the heart of what is bothering her, Tommy’s sticky cough and her husband’s obsession with the bottle. It is so easy to watch the people come and go and breathe little temptations into their ears. 

And if a miracle slips through, and Tommy’s cough clears just as Mr. Johanneson falls down a flight of stairs and sprains his wrist, then Crowley knows what to highlight in his report.

As it is, he returns home that evening feeling a little off, and when he passes by the Ayer household, a tingle runs down his spine— it has always clung to its serpentine memories and is usually the first sign that something evil is afoot. Hastur and Ligur, the few times they’ve visited in the past century, had been frustrated to find they could never sneak up on Crowley. 

But no, there is no demon here… present company excluded. With Aziraphale’s funny little smile still creeping in the corners of his mind, Crowley knocks on the door that stands opposite of his. 

Susannah Ayer opens the door, with her littlest atop her hip. “Oh!” She is startled to see him. “Why, you’re the man from next door…”

She glances down at his black attire, and up at the shades that shield his irises from view. Susannah’s smile flutters, evidently deciding Crowley was a person of interest. Well, she was right about that.

“Crowley,” he says, by way of introduction.

She nods. “Mrs. Susannah Ayer… John is not yet back from work, but I’ll be sure to let him know you stopped by. I know he frequents you for… well, god only knows what he gets up to when the kids are asleep.” 

She rolls her eyes, but Crowley can tell she holds no worries. John Ayer is a good man, even if he got himself into a spot of trouble here and again. Crowley held card games at his place, trying to stir up a fair bit of gambling addictions, but he always made sure to raise the stakes so certain men walked away with more than they came with. He liked to tell himself it encouraged the idea that they could keep slipping further into vice without ever expecting failure, until one day Crowley had them too deep in his pocket. That day had come for some already, Crowley knew, reflecting on one Mr. Johanneson. He did not think the day would ever come for Mr. Ayer.

“I have no qualms with your husband, Susannah,” he says, and her face flushes pink at the sound of her name. “In fact, I came to check on you.”

 _And the fact that your rooms smell like a Duke of Hell is sleeping there._

“Oh! Well, we were just about to sit down for supper, expecting John walks through those doors in a moment. Would you care to join us?”

Crowley had last eaten with Aziraphale, about a fortnight ago, because the angel had raved about the treacle cakes of a local bakery. He has not needed sustenance since. But that is not the reason he turns Susannah down, turning from the door with an itching need in his steps. 

He’s experienced a lot of things since the dawn of creation. He doesn’t need to experience what a family is like. 

It was only once Crowley had closed the shutters to his window and sat back in the plain wooden chair that he realized why Aziraphale’s coy smile had been running circles in his mind since that afternoon. Aziraphale, settled in his new shop, _A.Z. Fell and Co._ brandished on the front, _and Co._ , a neat facsimile of humanity that had always come so easily to Aziraphale, even in the face of danger. Then, the thought flashing through his mind like a comet: 

_What if Aziraphale doesn't need me?_

* * *

Aziraphale was feeling settled. He was quickly discovering that he liked the sensation. And, like any angel who wanted to spread good feeling unto mankind, he thought he’d quite like to be settled _with_ someone.

He also knew exactly who he’d like to be settled with.

Perhaps that was the cheeky little feeling that pushed him to add _and Co._ to the sign on his bookshop. When Crowley had studied the sign, Aziraphale wanted to make excuses for it, had already brushed it off in his own mind as trying to blend in with every other human shop on the block, the storefronts that boasted of legacy and legion and made Aziraphale feel rather quite alone. 

But Aziraphale knew exactly why he had done it, and a part of him yearned for Crowley to just _see_ , so that Aziraphale never had to speak it out loud. 

Sometimes he wanted to, though. Right now, he slid a hand down the spines of the books on the shelf closest to him, and the dangerous thought entered his mind. _Speak it out loud,_ he thought.

They were closer now, than they ever had been before. Years had compounded in them choosing to be near each other, existing near one another, having drinks and dinner and long conversations by candlelight. Centuries of companionship had crept into Aziraphale's heart, and the realization felt like a living thing. 

_Speak it_ , the voice nagged, as if simply saying the words into the air would make it so. Feeling the blood thrum uselessly through his veins, filling his cheeks with red, Aziraphale looked across his dark and empty store.

“I want to be with him,” he tested against the night air.

 _I am in love with Crowley,_ his mind finished, but he knew he would never speak that part aloud. After all, he never knew who might be listening in. 

Closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind to see if he could sense Crowley, but now that London was thick with Hellish smog, it blocked out so much of Aziraphale's divine senses. Even the part he thought would always be able to find Crowley. 

He bit his lip in frustration and pulled a copy of _Les Liasions Dangereuses_ off the shelf, the first sight of French taking him momentarily back to a dreary dungeon in the Bastille, and his savior in black. _Not the first time_ , Aziraphale had thought, when they were sitting across from each other enjoying a plate of crepes. _And not the last_ , he was sure of it. 

He settled in his favorite, well-worn chair, leafing the book open to the first page. One day, he would pay Crowley back. One day, everything would be right. 

He breathed in the muggy stench of paper and leather, reaching out one last time to Crowley. What he felt, the sickening burn of demonic energy, dark and _wrong_ , sent him catapulting out of his chair. That had not been Crowley. Crowley was dark but burned with a patient warmth, like a serpent coiled around a desert rock. That had been Hellfire, roiling sickeningly in the heart of London. 

Aziraphale cast out a quick prayer that the demon had not felt Aziraphale's presence, even though some dreadful part of him thought, _they're not listening_. 

For so long, it had been Crowley and him, alone. Now, someone new was entering their decades-long dance. Aziraphale brought a hand to his eyes, book forgotten on the sagging seat of the armchair, trying to push back the creeping, ugly thought:

_What if Crowley doesn't choose me?_

* * *

Crowley hadn’t been asleep. He hadn’t been meditating. Those were human things, that Crowley had no use for. Still, the knocking startled him out of— well, _nothing_. He blinked at the smoky light filtering through the slats of his window, and fumbled for his shades. 

Rolling off the thin cot, he snapped his fingers and was dressed. 

“What is it?” He put a fair amount of menace into his voice and threw open the door. Susannah Ayer’s startled face peered back at him. 

“Oh! Mr. Crowley,” she said. “I did not mean to wake you. I wasn’t sure if you were— that is, people are only just getting back from work now, and—”

“My question still stands,” Crowley grumbled. He tries to not feel bad about it, but his resolve slips. He softens his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Henry,” her voice did not shake, but her lips were white. “He hasn’t returned yet, and John’s working late again. I would go check myself, but I can’t just leave the children, nor can I bring the little’uns to the factory floor.”

“How old is the boy?” Crowley asked. He had seen Henry, his hair a mop of fire-red, just like his dad, running through the halls of the building with the other boys. That had been months ago, and he hadn’t seen the boy since. The shift must have occurred when the newest batch of boys were hired by the factories, small fingers perfect for small (and dangerous) jobs. 

“He’s nine. He knows to walk back with the other boys, but Miles and Josiah have already returned, and they said they couldn’a find him when it was time to leave.”

Crowley was silent for a moment. Last night, he knew better than to step into the Ayer’s home, to feel the warmth of humanity burn bright like the sun— _so appealing_ , his serpent mind hissed. To step into this now, Crowley felt with a building hesitation, would be to step into something with no easy way out. The last time he had done something like that, a woman had eaten an apple and an angel had lost his flaming sword. And Crowley had fallen in love. 

“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll find him. Where is he employed?”

The walk to the center of the factory line was swift. Delaney’s factory employed a great number of people in the building, but Crowley had never found his way past the doors; he had had no reason to. With the experience that he had, he was sure that a man with as much success and money as Delaney would be no real challenge. 

The factory was winding down for the night, but there was still a flurry of activity: great machines hissing steam at Crowley as he passed them, and burly men casting wary looks. Crowley wondered how hectic it got during operating hours.

“Excuse me,” he waved down one of the workers. “Do you know where Henry Ayer is?” 

“John’s boy?” The man wrinkled his nose. “Can’t say. Hey, aren’t you the one who holds those card—” 

With a wave, Crowley erased the thought from the man’s mind. He didn’t need word of his gambling ring spreading. What if Aziraphale found out?

“Thanks anyway,” Crowley grumbled, and pushed on, deeper into the factory. The halls were quiet now, but a sensation of disquiet prickled its way down Crowley’s spine. He sniffed the air cautiously, and the same dirty sulfuric scent flooded his senses. 

In the distance, he thought he saw the figure of a boy. 

“Henry?” He called. The soles of his shoes tapped their way forward at an arrhythmic pace. 

Henry Ayer stood in the center of the dark hall, his back to Crowley. 

“Henry, you little brat,” Crowley chided. “You’ve got a lot of people worried about you, and you’re just—“

He stopped the moment he saw Henry’s face, frozen in a tight look of confusion. 

“Oh no,” he said. 

He recognized a possession when he saw one.

“Crowley?” A voice behind him rang out, and he spun neatly on his heel. 

The plume of ash took the shape of a man, and from within the dark tendrils, Crowley could barely make out a face. He did not recognize the demon at all. 

“It is you, isn’t it?” The voice came from the cloud of smoke. “I have to say, I knew you were in the area, but I really wasn’t expecting your company so soon. Can I… this is awkward…”

The smoke was dissipating into the air rapidly, but always, there was a steady stream coming from the heart of the figure. Crowley quickly realized why: this demon did not have a corporeal form. 

Which meant Hell might not have even approved this visit.

“Anyway, I’m a big fan. Upper management has been distributing some of your work notes to us, trying to motivate us… well, you know how little that can stick with some of those demons. But I only had visions after that. Took me a while to get this position, but now that I’m here…” the smoke begins to coil around Crowley’s feet. “Big plans!” 

“You’re not from the beginning, are you?” 

“No, I’m quite new. Well, I say new, but I’m roughly three centuries old.”

“What do they call you?” A name to a face. Not just a human need. 

“Fumus.”

 _Smoke_. Crowley thinks of the soot being pumped into the air by the factories, the dust settling on every bit of clothing, every corner of the house, in the lungs of children. No wonder this demon felt called here. 

“Possession’s a little low brow,” Crowley continued. 

“Well,” Fumus’s form bristled, smoke becoming jagged. “Not all of us are favored enough to earn a meat suit. I fought my way to be here, and this boy is just a cog. No harm will come to him. Yet.”

“So… downstairs. They know about this?”

“Well,” another hesitation. Crowley knew better than to view this demon as naive, however young they were. Possession was a skill, one that Crowley had barely mastered (though, that was more a result of never getting enough practice, or wanting any). No, it was best to view this demon for what it was… a threat. 

“Let’s just say, downstairs didn’t quite like my vision. They are so small-picture. Not like you.”

The smoke figure didn’t have a mouth, but Crowley could almost picture the gaping smile, the trademark of so many demons he’d encountered before.

“And what is your vision?”

“That boy was just my ride, but the master of this factory is my destination. His soul is already beautifully corrupted, but the power he has… could impact so many more. I want to secure the souls of his workforce for our master. Accident after accident… who could have foreseen it?”

The smoke began to ebb and flow, like black waves of night. 

“Children work here,” Crowley found himself saying. It was the wrong thing to say.

“Yes, innocent souls, the ones we like best. Or have you forgotten?”

The hallway flooded black. 

“They say,” the voice was in Crowley’s ear, in his _head_. “That you’ve forgotten your purpose up here. How about a little help with this endeavor? Lest Hell think you’ve abandoned your post…”

Then, the smoke dissipated entirely, and Crowley knew only that he needed to look to Henry. 

Sure enough, the boy’s irises sparked the color of pitch, and his mouth curled darkly up. 

“And you wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”

* * *

Aziraphale is dozing behind his desk when Crowley unlocks the doors to his shop. He had closed the doors well before noon, frustrated that people had come in looking to buy up his books. Perhaps he had overestimated his love of humanity— or underestimated his love of his books.

“Crowley!” He starts awake when the bell chimes, recognizing the dark shades and coils of red hair that breeze into his existence. As always, Aziraphale’s heart starts to beat a little quicker. _Really_ , he admonishes himself. 

“Were you sleeping?” Crowley had looked quite rushed, but now he is rocking back on those long legs, casting a judgmental look over at Aziraphale. He feels himself bristle under the scrutiny, thinks _don’t look too closely_. 

“Yes. I find it quite relaxing. Almost as good as a robust Burgundy.”

“Well,” Crowley was biting his lip. “I don’t have time to unpack that. I have a problem.”

Aziraphale’s mind flashed to the danger he had sensed last night. _Is he choosing me?_

“Let me help, dear boy.”

Crowley pulled over a stool and perched lightly on it, taking off his shades. Aziraphale gazed into his serpentine irises coolly, before Crowley cast his eyes down. 

“I’ve been living in the tenements.” 

This wasn’t where Aziraphale had expected Crowley to start. 

“Oh,” he said simply. Crowley glanced up quickly, then resumed his careful stare at the wood grains of the floor. 

“There are families there, and I enjoy living with them. Quite a lot of fun to be had, little temptations here and there…”

“Little miracles?” Aziraphale inquired, filling in the gaps. Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale knew the truth. 

“They are all in danger now. There’s a demon here, a young one, but he’s lethal. He’s putting them all at risk.”

“You love them.” 

“I’m a demon, I can’t remember how to love,” Crowley stated this as though it were plain and simple fact, and not something that made Aziraphale’s heart ache. 

“It’s just… it’s about the children, isn’t it,” Crowley said. “I mean, what choice did they have in the matter? There’s no element of temptation to his plan, it’s just…”

“Suffering,” Aziraphale finished the thought. 

“And really,” Crowley groans. “Where’s the art in it?”

“Perhaps I should say something,” Aziraphale’s mind is already whirling with possibilities, and looking at the deep ache of Crowley’s posture, not all of them are bloodless. He had never been one for smiting, but he had also never been in love before. “You know, a check in from the friendly neighborhood angel. He must have sensed my presence by this point.” 

“I don’t want to put you on the spot,” Crowley said, even though it was clear this was the only option. “He’s low, he wasn’t even issued a body. I don’t think they even know he’s here. But he could… say things, about me. He could bring me down.” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, but his mind was white with panic. So, this really wasn’t a favor at all. This was where Aziraphale saved Crowley’s life. 

“Angel,” Crowley was saying, as Aziraphale stood and made his way to him. “I’m not ready to go back.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale found himself saying, not only to Crowley, who was still trying to match his fierce gaze, but also to his own live-wire nerves. 

“I’ve been where you are now,” the words fell from his mouth with an ease. He saw Crowley’s eyes flash with recognition. Yes, they had made the same mistakes. _We are the same,_ Aziraphale pushed the feeling out, because he could not say it. “I got too close, once. But you were there for me.” 

He brought his hand to his neck, and Crowley tracked the motion with golden eyes. He saw Crowley swallow, his throat bob tightly with the action. 

“You’ve always been there for me,” Aziraphale said. Crowley was leaning toward him, now, but Aziraphale didn’t know what for. They were lost in the moment together, 200 years earlier, Aziraphale bleary from a near discorporation-by-hanging, and Crowley watching him manically, as if he’d very nearly lost something important. The both of them sat and watched a horse in a field for what felt like minutes but could have been hours, before their hands found each other. They hadn’t said anything about it since. 

“I feel so helpless this time,” Crowley’s voice shook, and Aziraphale imagined he could feel his breath on his lips. 

“Please,” Aziraphale heard his own voice, but couldn’t feel the words in his mouth. “This time, let me take care of you.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, and he moved forward like he was expecting to meet something.

And then there was nothing against Aziraphale’s lips but the cool night air, and the smoke of the factories. 

* * *

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“Who, me?”

“It was a neat trick. Were you ever worried it wouldn’t work on me?”

“Not at all. I think we have a lot more in common than you like to think.”

A beat. 

A fleeting glance, met by the other with a cautious smile. 

“About… back there, all that… I just…”

“Angel.”

“Right. Well, just so you know, I owe you one.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t keep track, if I were you. You could end up owing me fifty.”

“Fifty? I dare say, I may look a little soft, but I’d be more than willing… why, if you hadn’t come, I’d be right back on Earth in a matter of minutes! I’m very good at paperwork.”

“I don’t doubt it.” 

It’s left unsaid, for the moment. It won’t be left unsaid forever. 

_I don’t want to lose you. Let me protect you._

_I love you._

* * *

Crowley watches Susannah embrace Henry, who looks a little owlish but definitely not possessed. 

"Off you go, now," she says, her voice stern. "You don't want to be late."

There is a playful lilt to her words that Crowley recognizes as affection. He hears it in his own voice, too often now. 

Henry looks at Crowley carefully as he departs for the factory, clutching his lunch sack. Crowley brushes a finger against his nose and breathes out a quick miracle. When Henry sits down for lunch, today, he'll find a nice treacle tart waiting for him, the kind Aziraphale likes the most. The boy deserves it, for all he's been through. 

"I'll say," Susannah exhales loudly. "That boy had me up half the night, raving about some fantasy story he must have heard yesterday. The way he went on about a smoke monster and an angel of light..." She laughs, suddenly enough to catch Crowley off guard. "Maybe we should start going to those sermons again. He nearly has me worried."

"He'll be fine," Crowley says. "Kids are full of imagination."

Susannah's smile is deceptive. Crowley isn't the best with human emotions, but he swears she almost looks sad. "I'm glad he still has that in him. I don't want him to lose himself. I never want him to lose any part of himself."

"He's strong, and he'll get stronger," Crowley promises. "That's one thing I know for sure. People don't lose themselves easily."

 _And not without a fight_. 

He hasn't heard from Aziraphale since he asked him for help, he thinks, as he bids Susannah farewell and makes his way down the street. He doesn't have much of a destination, but his feet seem to know where to take him. 

St. James's Park is currently very brown, heat soaking through the grass. But the area around the duck pond is lush and green, and Crowley can't help but think that is because it is a very loved area. 

The object of Crowley's love is sitting on a bench, tossing crusty bits of baguette to the squawking creatures. 

Crowley takes a spot next to him, and Aziraphale meets his gaze with a grin. 

"Hello, my dear," he says, and Crowley catches the way Aziraphale's mouth softens around the word. _Oh,_ he thinks. _Maybe it was always meant that way_. 

"Angel," he answers, and he knows the true meaning of that, too. "Everything alright?"

"Right as rain," Aziraphale says, "Which we desperately need right now. I find that rain always gives everything a nice restart. It's cleansing, don't you think?"

Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat, thoughtful. 

"Closing the bookshop again today?"

Aziraphale's smile is coy. It will run circles around Crowley's mind tonight, and every day after. "You know, I always liked the idea of opening a bookshop, and still do. But for now, I'd much rather sit and enjoy your company. I thought the very same when I put up that sign."

"Oh," Crowley says. Remembers the name, _A.Z. Fell and Co._ He blinks. "Oh!" 

Aziraphale's laugh is brilliant. He passes Crowley a crust of bread, and when their fingers touch, Crowley has trouble pulling away. 

One day, he will be sitting on this bench with Aziraphale, and their hands will meet, and neither will pull away. They won't have to, because they'll know exactly what they mean to the other. 

And even though that day is not this day, they are both starting to get a clear picture. 

Above them, the rain clouds roll in. 


End file.
